


A Brand New Angle (Highly Commendable)

by SupernovaRemnants



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Sucks At Resisting A Temptation, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Plot What Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Romantic Romping, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Tenderness, The Bookshop Does Like Its Owner To Have His Fun, romantic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernovaRemnants/pseuds/SupernovaRemnants
Summary: .Crowley’s eyebrows rise in fascination one by one, as Aziraphale bends his knees to gather papers from a small table, his rear posing perfectly for Crowley to admire the swelling of his thighs, the soft roundness of his buttocks.Satan, his Angel knows he loves his behind. Why does he ... ?Oh..
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	A Brand New Angle (Highly Commendable)

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely do hope Freddie appreciates me using his lyrics.

„Oh, dear, it appears I‘m really clumsy today!“ Aziraphale says, and a subtle note in his words makes Crowley open up his eyes.

„Ummm, why‘s that, love?“ he asks lazily, still halfway enveloped in the cosiness of his late-afternoon nap on the sofa in the bookshop‘s back room. 

He‘s had his all-morning nap and, following a relaxed lunch with Aziraphale at this lovely new cafe that‘s opened just around the corner, resolved to an early-afternoon nap. 

As there‘s absolutely no point really in getting up while Aziraphale is still busy with discouraging customers from buying books, he stayed sprawled all over the sofa for the later afternoon and napped on, even cosier after Aziraphale had tucked him in with the old red and gold damask blanket.

Aziraphale. His adorable caring Angel, his Love for six thousand years, and now his Lover for some six months.

Crowley knows for sure there is a God, and sometimes he catches himself reciting silent prayers of thanks to Her for all that has happened. Must be that blasted heavenly influence that’s rubbing off Aziraphale when their bodies so delightfully rub on each other, time after time again since their very own revelations last fall. 

„This book just keeps slipping out of my hands. Slithery little thingy it is.“ Aziraphale blinks his trademark little glance to Crowley before modestly closing his eyes again, turning around and making a big fuss about picking up the book. Which is a rather thick volume of Charles Dickens, bound in leather and clearly not slick at all. 

Unlike Aziraphale, who bends forward to pick up the book in a way that presents his bottom in a most becoming manner. 

Now Crowley is wide awake. 

He watches his Angel shuffle and turn. Crowley’s eyebrows rise in fascination one by one, as Aziraphale bends his knees to gather papers from a small table, his rear posing perfectly for Crowley to admire the swelling of his thighs, the soft roundness of his buttocks. 

Satan, his Angel knows he loves his behind. Why does he ... ? 

Oh. 

Aziraphale straightens himself up as Crowley shifts into sitting, and shoots a tiny glace to him, just to check if his Demon is watching. (*) 

(* He is, the correct term thoughrather being ‚gaping open mouthed in awe‘). 

Leisurely the angel looks around the bookshop and his gaze gets caught by an unmissable stain on the beforehand spotless floor. 

„Dear me, now look at that!“ Aziraphale gets down on his knees and bends forward to rub away the soil. 

Crowley looks at that, indeed, but his interest is clearly not on housekeeping issues. 

„Angel!“ he whispers, mesmerised by his Angel‘s butt bopping in an excruciatingly slow rhythm forwards and backwards as the angel pretends to clean the floor. 

„My bastard Angel!“ Crowley mutters appreciatively, then „Oh, for fuck‘s sake!“ he blurts and jumps to his feet to chase after this heavenly tempting behind. 

Aziraphale has heard him rising and scrambles to his feet, eyes wide, to run from the charged demon. 

Only the crammed bookshop won‘t allow for running (it does like it‘s owner to have his fun), so Aziraphale’s more scampering in front of the demon. 

Crowley indeed catches up fast and grabs Aziraphale rather rough by his arm. 

„Angel, ‘m sorry, didn’t wanna hurt you,“ he splutters an apology, but Aziraphale looks a lot more excited than hurt and squeaks „Green! The flag is green!“

_„What???_ “

Crowley stares at his Angel. 

Then all pieces fall into place, and he eyeballs him with anewed admiration. 

So that‘s why Aziraphale had this conversation with Madame Tracy on their last visit there, about her evening jobs and how to code consent. That‘s why his Angel made sure he was listening, calling out to him „Dear me, now, Crowley did you know about this thing with flag colours?“ „Crowley, what fascinating means of communication these humans have come up with!“ „Crowley, didn‘t I have any clue!“ 

Well, he clearly has a clue now and the prey he’s chosen is more than willing. 

„Green! Crowley, green!“ Aziraphale’s tone is getting imperative, if not impatient. 

Crowley doesn’t hide his smirk anymore. „Is that so, Angel?“ he rasps, his heart suddenly racing and his look drawn again to Aziraphale’s waistline and below. His eyes linger on the cherished roundness of his Angel‘s butt, and he takes in the promising bulk expanding at his front. Both of their fronts, to be precise. 

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s arm, and the angel scuttles away to the back room, Crowley chasing closely behind. Chasing Aziraphale’s tantalising behind, to be precise.

There‘s the sofa. The very sofa where they‘ve sat for centuries chastely opposite each other, immersed in conversation and getting drunk on exquisite wines. The very sofa where they‘d lie on together so often in the last months, immersed in each other, and being drunk with the most exquisite infatuation. 

The very sofa Aziraphale runs to now, to stop just in front of it, looking over his shoulder, to allow for Crowley to catch up. 

Crowley bumps softly into him, pushing Aziraphale over onto the sofa, while steadying his Angel by gripping his hips, just as he realises that both of them are stark naked all of a sudden. 

Now, if that isn’t flashing green code for invitation. His Angel tempting him, on his knees, presenting himself in a brand new, perfect angle just in front of him. 

A wave of lust surges up in Crowley, concomitant with a storm tide of love. 

This adorable Angel, once more he‘s got him  _exactly_ where he wanted him. Oh fuck, Crowley thinks, how he loves his Angel, and how he loves to fuck his Angel, and how he‘s going to fuck his Angel right now. Just as this beloved bastard had planned all along. Obviously. 

Crowley curtly checks if his Angel is ready for him, which of course he is. Obviously. 

„Green, green!“ Aziraphale squeals excitedly, as if Crowley needed a reminder to get a wiggle-on. Really. 

Crowley assays his Angel’s readiness gently, pushing softly, and then drowns himself fully into his Angel, holding roughly on to his hips. His breathing, unnecessary but so exhilarating as it is, instantly becomes ragged.

„Oh, Crowley! You‘re so good! It’s all green! Are you mightier today, I wonder?“ 

Even after all these months Crowley’s still perplexed how Aziraphale can manage to speak in coherent sentences with polite circumlocution while being fucked to his core. (*)

(* He‘s willing to take upon himself any time and opportunity, though, that‘ll be needed to unravel this mystery.)

Crowley halts for a moment, close to pulling out. 

„Too much, Angel? Should I ...?“

„No, no, you‘re perfect, do go on, love, please. It was just a little unexpected. Please, I beg you, do go - on!“

The last word turns into an enraptured squeak again as Crowley pushes himself to the hilt back into his Angel, being all enraptured himself by the tightness of his Angel‘s body and the sight of Aziraphale’s back writhing in rhythm with his own thrusts. 

Crowley‘s hands find their way to Aziraphale’s firm buttocks, his lower back, caressing his soft skin, relishing the tone of Aziraphale’s flexing muscles underneath the facade of this so soft skin. He bends forward, pushing in as deep as he might, in perfect rhythm with his Angel’s greedy backward thrusts. 

His hands travel to Aziraphale’s chest, stroking these downy curls that decorate his body so splendidly, moving on to his abdomen, to finally come to rest on Aziraphale‘s swollen, hardcock. Crowley strokes his length languidly, and then his grip tightens, giving himself a counterpoint for his thrusts inside his Angel‘s body.

„Oh, Cowley, you‘re so kind!“ Aziraphale ejects gratified. Crowley can’t help but grunt in response, desperately.

„Angel, don’t do this, you know what‘ll happen.“

He plunges himself into Aziraphale‘s body, succeeding his soul that’s been completely soused in his Angel‘s kind love for so long already. 

„It‘s just, you thinking of me, dearest, while you are ... Oh, yes, darling! You‘re feeling so good, so - truly ...“

Aziraphale trails off, losing his words finally as ecstasy takes over, sweeping his angelic brain with passion and want. 

Crowley jubilates in his heart, _this_ is true rapture for him, when he is the reason that Aziraphale is lost for words, this is the best indication that whatever he does, he makes his Angel happy, and he‘d do and give anything to make his Angel happy.

Crowley thrusts faster with this additional stimulus, his grip tightens, though one of his palms makes its path up to the tip of Aziraphale’s cock, to welcome the very proof of his Angel‘s delight that leaks from the top. 

„... good! So good!“ Aziraphale cries out, and Crowley knows his Angel’s close, both of them are so close now, and he picks up speed, and vigour, and virtuosity, he knows this spot that will bring his Love over the edge, and he uses this knowledge, and -

„Crowley! Oh Crowley!“ Aziraphale exclaims in utter ecstasy, and Crowley can hear the glee in his voice, and he knows what his Angel will cry out next, he‘s going to do it, oh, this bastard of a cheeky angel, he‘s going to bring him down completely. 

All of a sudden Crowley yearns to hear these words from his Love, although he knows they‘re going to break him, hear these words that’ll shatter his demonic soul, peeling off all wiles, leaving him bare. 

„Crowley! You‘re so loving, so nice, so kind ...!“

And there Crowley goes, spilling all his love into his angel, gripping his angel, feeling his Angel explode as well, and both shiver and gasp and laugh, and suddenly wings are out, white wings nestling upwards around Crowley’s sides while black ones snuggle downwards to engulf both of them, as they are breaking open, still holding tight onto each other, carried off by spasms sweeping through their bodies, sealed together and not able to distinguish boundaries anymore.

For a few moments the world consists of nothing but their ecstatic breathing and their sweating, quivering bodies, wordless pledges of their love.

At last these bodies break down on the sofa, all drained and spent, though glowing from the rapturous delight they‘ve just endowed each other with. 

Crowley’s still inside Aziraphale, clinging on to him, not willing to part, not yet, still flying high on being encompassed by his Angel’s love. 

His wings stabilize their weight, and his chest is fondled by these soft white feathers when he bends forward once more to whisper into his Love’s ear „You said them. You really said them. You know that they‘ll break me open and make me come, you beloved bastard.“ 

„Hmmm,“ Aziraphale hums, and Crowley can distinctly hear the satisfaction in his Angel‘s voice. „And you do love it, admit it.“

„I do love you, Angel, admittedly.“

Crowley covers his Love‘s back with gentle kisses, wherever his lips can comfortably reach (which is quite a range due to his bendy body), until the urge for Aziraphale’s still gleeful lips takes over and they part. Only to cuddle up into each other immediately again on the miraculously cleaned sofa, and their lips merge as close as their bodies did. 

Many kisses later Aziraphale falls asleep in Crowley’s wings, and Crowley saunters into this trancelike state of relaxed contentedness that he only gets into after a good day‘s rest and a good deal of extensive lovemaking. 

He takes in the sight of Aziraphale’s drowsy features, relaxed and glowing with happiness, radiating love even in his sleep. It‘s rather novel for his Angel to sleep at all. It happens exclusively after a good deal of extensive lovemaking, snuggled up to Crowley, the angel usually _not_ having had a full day‘s rest beforehand. 

Crowley looks at him, his long fingers gently playing in his Angel’s soft curls, blowing tender kisses onto his Love with every unnecessary breath. 

Crowley feels so much in love, he loves this heavenly bastard with all his heart, with all his soul, with every cell of this body. And, even more, Crowley feels loved, he feels and knows that he‘s loved in return. 

Crowley smiles.

Slowly he too drifts off into relaxed sleepiness, to join his Angel in lovely dreams, embracing his Love with arms and soul and wings.

Outside, the world keeps on bustling. 

A very complacent dingy old bookshop in Soho, London, pretty laid-back decides to change its erratic shop hours sign to a considerably simpler ‚Closed for the time being‘. 

After having had to witness more than two centuries of repressed yearning unrivaled in any of its novels in stock, it does like its owner to have his fun, and it certainly deems its owner and his Love to deserve a relaxed nap for as long as they like. 

If the bookshop could smile, it would be grinning like the Cheshire Cat (*).

(*even more than in that illustration on page 91 in its first edition sitting on the top row of the third shelf in the western section - the shop knows where it keeps its books, even if its owner loses track sometimes). 

But of course, it can’t, and so it’s only the humans hurrying by who start to smile for ineffable reasons, their hearts uplifted by love, uplifted by a river of love cascading out of the discerned building, flowing from an old sofa in the bookshop’s back room, on which an angel and a demon rest from making love, limbs and wings still entwined, smiling at each other in their sleep. 

.

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody would’ve told me a year ago I‘d ever write anything, let alone anything like this, I‘d told them to shut up ...  
> Well, here we are.
> 
> Yeah, I know, the bookshop does own a copy of Alice’s Adventures illustrated by Mabel Lucie Attwell.  
> Today (Feb 28th) though happens to be Sir John Tenniel’s 200th birthday, so I’m leaving this absolutely superfluous piece of information in.


End file.
